A Walk In Summertime

The Larkspur Horne

Daylight, you are heavy. A father’s hand pushing on my forehead.
Mad mother, squeezing me too tightly, sibling stretching
my tired legs; daylight, you pull me, like a mule pulls a cart.

Memory is sand being shaken in a soup can.
Easy roads are gutted by fallen trees. I do not remember
them falling, when was it they fell?
I use to walk this street when I was young, but now it ends.

Still I carry a pamphlet Star Finder in my back pocket,
even as I know the world has created a device
in which I only have to swing my pointer finger over a screen
to watch the heavens spin.

The sun is unforgiving. I might beg it to stop shining
but it will still shine. Boil my shoulders, make the oil in my hair
glint and glow. Photons tugging at my earlobes.

Still I walk often, despite…

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